


Understudy

by ironstarker



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25533022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironstarker/pseuds/ironstarker
Summary: Alcohol tastes as bitter as regret, but it's easier for Tony to swallow than the sight of Peter Parker tucked beneath Quentin Beck's arm. He was the one who inadvertently put an end to things. So why was it every time he saw Peter smile, or tilt his ear so Quentin could whisper into it, that jealousy gnawed at the pit of his stomach?
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 52





	Understudy

With every passing moment, it became harder for Tony to look away from Peter. He was standing a few paces away, one arm snug around the waist of a researcher Tony knew (after extensive digging with FRIDAY) to be one Quentin Beck. The guy was upstanding, one of the best in his field, and Tony supposed that it was natural for Peter to gravitate towards him. The kid loved brilliant minds, and how could Tony blame him? It was the reason they’d gotten together in the first place. Peter insisted that he’d fallen in love with Tony’s brain before his money, but the older man was willing to bet the combination of his brain and his mouth were what had driven Peter away.

That was how it went for Tony, without fail.

There was a woman at his own hip, a champagne flute in her hand. She was trying to hold his attention. Tony was surprised that she hadn’t given up yet (he was up to four already tonight, each who had tried and failed and decided he wasn’t worth the effort when there were other men just as pretty as him, and maybe not as rich but rich enough to be worth it) but he felt it coming soon. The curve of her smile had turned into a gentle frown, and he saw movement from the corner of her eye as she continued looking over her shoulder to see what captured his attention. She would know. They all knew the story of Tony Stark and Peter Parker, courtesy of the tabloids and TMZ.

He wasn’t sure who had recorded their fight, but he’d gotten his settlement for it already. That didn’t mean it would scrape the damn thing off the surface of the internet, though. It was there, to live in permanence forever, the moment that Tony mouthed off at Peter in the middle of Marea and left him (and Tony’s favorite tiramisu) seated alone to handle the check. It could’ve been worse. Honestly, Tony had a mean streak in him, and Peter was lucky to have gotten out before the older man really humiliated him.

The kid was lucky to be free of him.

But Tony wanted him back.

He hated it, standing there trying to pretend like he didn’t see the boy enjoying his evening with Quentin. According to FRIDAY, their relationship had started shortly after the video had been released. Tony was willing to bet Quentin had swooped in like some overgrown vulture, intent on snatching Peter up before someone else had the chance to. They met because Tony had reassigned Peter from the project they’d been working on together and he’d put him on Quentin’s instead. It was a move meant to get Peter away from him, and it had worked. Much, much too well it had worked. FRIDAY let him watch the footage of Peter introducing himself to Quentin. It was innocent, at first. Tony watched each day of footage, and soon enough morning waves turned into morning coffees courtesy of the younger man, and then late nights where their fingers would brush and Peter’s cheeks would turn red.

Tony recognized all of the signs, because each and every one of them were things the kid used to do with him. Peter used to bring him coffee every morning, and the older man would give him a grateful (if not tired) smile. The late nights in the lab? Tony had thought that was their thing. At least fooling around on top of his desk remained sacred. Peter wasn’t fooling around with Quentin on Stark Industries property, probably because he didn’t trust Tony not to invade his privacy (smart move) and fire Quentin as a result. He’d never fire Peter. Tony had promised the kid that, even as he’d tried apologizing while Peter packed away his things into a box and saw himself out of the penthouse.

He wanted to be bitter towards Peter for moving on so quickly. How had he already found a replacement? But how could Tony blame him? His name was splashed across every tabloid and had been for months since they’d broken up. Every one night stand that he left charity galas and nightclubs with headlined the front page of celebrity news gossip, and Tony hadn’t done a thing to rein it (or himself) in. 

But Peter looked like he was doing fine. Maybe the tabloid gossip didn’t even bother him.

“ — night, Tony,” the woman in front of him said, and he blinked, coming back to earth with enough time to register her walking away from him, hips swaying. 

On any other night, Tony was good at playing bachelor. He turned on the charm for anyone and everyone, men and women alike. Tonight, with Peter in attendance? He was hopeless. Tony was beginning to think that he shouldn’t have allowed the kid to come, but HR and their anti-discrimination bullshit would’ve had something to say about that.

So, instead of continuing his staring, he turned on his heel and went to get himself a drink. It was easier to handle these things when he was drunk out of his mind, and Tony was hoping it would help him forget the kid laughing because of whatever dumb joke Quentin had whispered into his ear.

Across the room, Peter’s eyes flickered in Tony’s direction. The billionaire’s presence filled up every space that he went, and tonight Peter felt his ego transcended the entire ballroom. They were at Carnegie Hall for Stark Industries’ annual Christmas party, and everyone wanted a piece of Tony. Peter couldn’t blame them. He looked exceptional tonight, dapper in a freshly pressed suit and a bowtie that had to be new. Peter had never seen him wear it before, and he’d taken an extensive tour of Tony’s closet. He tried not to look for the other man too much tonight, but sometimes his eyes would stray and he wasn’t able to help himself.

At least Quentin hadn’t noticed.

Peter’s brow knitted as he watched Tony direct himself towards the bar. That was when Peter stopped watching. He didn’t like seeing Tony drink. Peter was confident that whatever had happened at Marea happened because Tony had had a few too many glasses of scotch at work and then proceeded to drink throughout the first half of their dinner together. It was when the boy had tried to casually suggest that he stop that the other man had exploded. 

And now, that part of their history together would be immortalized, never to be forgotten.

It wasn’t a part that Peter was proud of. The public hadn’t seen the rest of their moments together in private, and while Peter was thankful for it, that night painted a bad look on Tony. Pepper had told him the next morning that share prices for Stark Industries had dipped three points after that video had been released, and she was losing her mind doing damage control. Peter had promised to stay away from Tony. So far, he had done an excellent job of it. But forgetting Tony Stark? It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, even with Quentin by his side.

Quentin was a wonderful man. A little overbearing at times, sort of quirky in the way that all researchers were. He was obsessed with his work, but that suited Peter fine. It gave them easy subjects to talk about, and Peter had found that he was a sucker for intelligence. When Quentin had asked him out to dinner after a long, successful day in the lab? How could Peter have said no? 

And now the man’s fingers were digging into his side, not enough to hurt or anything, but a warm reminder that he was there. It was that sense of belonging Peter thought he had craved, but even now his eyes strayed to Tony. The other man had raised his hand to flag the bartender. Peter saw a flash of green from where Tony had probably pulled out a hundred dollar bill to tip him. The older man didn’t carry change, because he only ever withdrew money for events like these, Peter knew. He bit his lip as he watched, but then a gentle squeeze on his hip made him look up into the face of the man smiling down at him.

“Do you want something from the bar?”

Quentin was asking him that because he had to have seen the way Peter was watching Tony. In his panic, Peter was quick to nod. “I’ll — I saw a woman with some blue frozen thing that looked good,” Peter explained, and he tried not to cringe at how obvious it sounded.

But Quentin looked placated, if not a little comforted by his words, and Peter almost let out a sigh of relief. “One blue frozen thing, coming right up,” Quentin said. He grinned, leaning in. Peter raised on the tips of his toes so the taller man could plant a kiss on his cheek, and he watched Quentin walk away. Tony was still standing at the bar, leaning against it looking carefree. A woman had sidled up to him again. Peter looked away, searching the crowd to find faces that he recognized. He didn’t want to watch Tony charming another person to warm his bed at night.

At the bar, Tony was drumming his fingers against the counter, watching the bartender pour him a scotch (“Generous on the ice, generous on the pour,” Tony had said), all the while fighting the urge to turn around. He had hopes that the booze would help him forget all about Peter. His head was filled with Peter, stuffed like a ball of cotton or a turkey on Thanksgiving. The bartender set his drink down in front of him and Tony raised it in a mock gesture of cheers. The man had already turned to another customer, so Tony sighed into his glass before taking a swig.

There was another woman by his side, closer than was natural. “What’re you drinking tonight, Tony?” she asked, and he appraised her, taking his time to answer. This one was a blonde, her hair framing her face in long waves, her makeup a little too flashy for his tastes. After all the time he’d spent with Peter, his tendencies had swayed more toward natural of late. It was why he enjoyed morning sex so much. Most of these women would wash up before a second go, or if they didn’t, half their faces wound up smeared in his pillows. The men were even better.

“Scotch on the rocks.” She made a face, and out of habit he grinned. “Not a fan? What’re you pining for, sweetheart?” He went to raise his hand to get the bartender’s attention, but she stayed his wrist. Her fingers dug into his skin, and he found himself wishing he was left handed so his watch might’ve absorbed some of the bite of her manicure.“You.”

God, the level of effort it took for him not to roll his eyes was astounding. He tried to smile at her, but Tony knew that it looked like a grimace. She was staring at him with bedroom eyes, ready to pounce. Her fingers kept him from using his scotch as a distraction, which was the entire point. “You and everyone else in the room,” he said, and he gave a haughty bark of laughter that he knew she wouldn’t like. 

Not to his surprise, in her shock, her fingers went slack on his wrist. She gaped at him, and Tony arched a brow and gave her a cool look as he raised his tumbler of scotch and sipped it. “Guess TMZ had a point,” she said, all spark gone from her face. 

She looked at him, disgusted, turning her back to leave him to his thoughts. Maybe she thought he’d be ashamed of himself. Tony wasn’t. He watched her go, a sense of relief settling inside his stomach. Tony turned his body back towards the bar. He took another sip from his scotch, debating whether or not to down the contents, when a familiar voice spoke up next to him,

“ — said it was some kind of frozen blue drink?”

Tony turned his head and stared at Quentin Beck. It was comical, the way the man looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Tony chanced a look over his shoulder, but without Quentin’s height to pinpoint, he couldn’t make out where Peter was in the crowd. “Oh, Tony,” Quentin said, and the older man’s eyes were directed towards Quentin. “You know, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about additional funding for the project. Peter’s drawn up schematics that allow for additional detail with the augmented reality program I’m — you know, Binary Au — ”

“BARF, right,” Tony said, and he found a pathetic satisfaction in the way Quentin’s brow knitted and he frowned. “What about the funding?”

Quentin hesitated, looking as though he was having an internal debate about whether or not to correct Tony’s acronym, but he continued, “Well, uh, as I was saying, Peter found a way to get microscopic levels of accuracy within the program. I’m talking perfect skin texture, details like fingerprints and even something as small as a hangnail — but it’s going to be expensive.” 

“Expensive,” Tony repeated, “and experimental?” 

It shouldn’t have made Tony so gleeful, the apprehension on Quentin’s face. “…Somewhat. There’s no guarantees that it isn’t dependent on what the person can imagine. Someone like myself, or — or you, or even Peter, we know what the program can do, so that would come naturally. But for people with standard levels of cognition and intelligence, it might not matter.”

Tony liked to think that he was a practical man. He wouldn’t go around sabotaging groundbreaking work because of a failed relationship. Did he want to? Of course he did. He wanted to deny Quentin’s budget request, tell him to table it and save it for the Board to hear about, but he was the CEO. So Tony shrugged. “File a formal request. Give it to Pepper, I’ll sign it. I like what you and Pete are doing.” 

Quentin gave him a strange look. Tony was quick to brush it off by sipping his scotch. Thankfully, the bartender made his own appearance, setting down a tall, frozen glass of something that was electric blue and didn’t look the slightest bit alcoholic. Quentin’s eyebrows rose as he looked at it. It even had a tiny umbrella speared through a cherry floating at the top of it. 

“You always struck me as a wine drinker, Beck,” Tony said.

“It’s for Peter,” he said.

“Peter doesn’t drink.”

It was automatic, Tony’s response. His mouth decided to do that thing where it ran without consulting first with his brain. He saw Quentin’s expression shift, his fingers stilling against the sides of the glass from where he’d meant to grab it. Tony should’ve let him go. He shouldn’t have said anything. But it was true. Peter didn’t drink. He’d never seen the kid so much as sip alcohol in all the months they were together. The one time Peter had offered him a taste of his scotch, the poor kid had gone green around the gills and gagged, for fuck’s sake. He hated it. 

“You don’t know Peter as well as you think you do.” Quentin was smiling at him, but there was something vicious about it, like he hadn’t just asked Tony for a budgetary increase on his project. Tony raised his chin a fraction, straightening himself up to his full height so he wasn’t eye level with Quentin’s collarbone, at least. The other man was still taller than him, and Tony found that he was peeved by it.

“Maybe it's the other way around,” Tony suggested.

Quentin’s eyebrow rose, but Tony didn’t miss the way his expression darkened. There was something there, he had always suspected it. The researcher put on this nice, quirky little act, but Tony had a feeling he was as feral as a hyena. Always loitering around bigger, better people, waiting to fend off their scraps. 

“I think Peter already settled that for himself,” Quentin said, and he picked up the drink and spared Tony a cool glance. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Stark. My date is waiting for his drink.”

“Pretty rude for you to have kept him waiting so you could grovel at my feet about a little extra budget,” Tony snarked. 

All Beck had to do, in Tony’s humble opinion, was turn and walk away. He could be the bigger man. That was fine. Tony didn’t want to be the bigger man. There was a gleam in his eyes that spoke of how he wanted to take the role of vindictive bastard tonight. 

Beck didn’t turn around. He didn’t walk away. Instead, he said, “I’m the rude one, Mr. Stark? You’re the one who stood by and broke the kid’s heart. He loved you, you know. I don’t get why. What’s there to want from a drunk two bottles away from an early grave? But you know what? Don’t worry. I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.”

Tony’s lips twisted into the beginnings of a snarl, his hand finding Quentin’s tie before the other had time to react. The drink in Quentin’s hand sloshed over the side, splashing across their shoes and staining the other man’s sleeves. 

“What are you doing?”

Peter’s voice cut through the red haze he saw. Quentin’s expression had morphed from brimming rage to relief. “Pete! There you are. I don’t know what came over Tony, he’s — ”

“Tony, let him go,” Peter demanded, one of his hands on Tony’s wrists, trying to relax the ironclad grip he had on the other man.

Maybe it was because Tony was already looking to pick a fight. Maybe it was because the sight of Peter trying to dab at his date’s stained arm filled him with a possessive rage, or because he hated how Peter was apologizing to Quentin on his behalf like he had to. Whatever the reason, the next thing Tony knew was the crack of bone against his knuckles as Quentin’s face wound up a punching bag for his fist. The other man staggered back, groaning, bringing a hand up to his bleeding nose.

“Tony!”

It wasn’t Peter who had called his name, but rather Pepper. She was marching up to them even as Peter was fussing over Quentin’s face. Quentin was trying to brush it off, but as Pepper weaved through the thick throng of people in the room, Tony took that as his opportunity to exit the stage. 

He fled, like he always did, ignoring the way Pepper shouted after him and the hurt look on Peter’s face that would come to haunt him the rest of the night. 

Tony spent his evening locked up in his penthouse. FRIDAY was under strict orders to deny entry to anyone else, so he sat in his darkened living room, hunched forward on his couch. There was a half-drunk bottle of scotch sitting on the coffee table, and a tumbler that was ready to be refilled. He groaned, rubbing at his eyes. Tony had since removed his suit jacket, his bowtie left draped across his shoulders and his shirt unbuttoned. He drank into the early hours of the morning and then passed out on the couch, his polished shoes still on his feet.

“Boss? You’ve got a visitor.”

Tony groaned, turning his head into the couch to hide the light from the risen sun. “Where are my blackout curtains, FRIDAY?” he asked, his voice muffled by the couch cushion.

There was a beat of silence, but then he heard a soft whirring and the room was bathed in darkness. Tony risked it, cracking open an eye and lifting this head off the couch. The room was almost completely dark.  
“What’s this about a visitor?” Tony prompted, his voice gruff, his eyes lingering on the empty bottle of scotch. Jesus, had he drunk it all? “No visitors allowed. We’re under strict lockdown,” he said, and Tony got to his feet, his bowtie slipping off and onto the floor. Tony left it there in favor of picking up his bottle of scotch and his tumbler, carrying them both into the kitchen. His head was pounding, and he needed some fucking Advil.

“It’s Peter, boss. He says it’s important. He used your code to override my protocols.”

Tony grunted, depositing the empty glass into his sink and leaving the empty bottle on the marbled countertops. He’d have to get those access codes changed. “How forward of him,” Tony muttered, more to himself than to FRIDAY, and he moved to rummage through his cabinets, hunting the Advil that would ease the pounding in his brain.

No sooner than he’d popped three of the pills into his mouth and tossed them back with a sip of water than FRIDAY announced Peter’s arrival to the penthouse. Tony sighed, lingering near the sink, and then he walked away from his kitchen and made his way to the foyer. 

When the elevator opened, revealing Peter, Tony’s heart began thrumming in his chest. He’d always had heart problems, courtesy of a shitty ticker that was hereditary on his father’s side, but he knew this wasn’t a result of that. This was a direct response to Peter, who looked red-eyed and sad. Tony knew he shouldn’t be thinking it, but he hoped that meant things with Quentin were over. Peter had made his choice.

Instead, the kid shrugged a backpack off his shoulder as he stepped out of the elevator and into the foyer. He was biting his lip, his eyes darting around like he was once again familiarizing himself with a space he had once filled. If he thought anything of the fact that Tony was wearing the same clothes that he had the night before, he didn’t bring it up. Peter opened the backpack, and Tony blinked as he pulled out an AC/DC shirt, worn and ragged, that Tony recognized as his own.

“I found this in my bottom drawer while I was doing laundry last week,” Peter explained, and he clutched the shirt like he never wanted to let it go. Tony didn’t say a word. “At first I — I wanted to keep it.” 

“You should,” Tony blurted, and he again cursed his mouth.

Peter smiled in a sad way and shook his head, running his fingers over the faded lettering. “I can’t. It’s yours, and I can’t look at it without thinking about…about us.” Peter raised his head and looked at Tony, tears in his eyes. “It’s not fair to Quentin.”

Tony’s heart sank. “To Quentin?”

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence between them. Peter’s eyes were anxious as they settled on Tony. He waited, like he was expecting the older man to say something else. When Tony didn’t, Peter held the shirt out in offering. Tony looked at it, but he didn’t take it.

In the back of his mind, something whispered to him that he didn’t like being handed things.

Another part of him protested, it’s Peter.

“I don’t want it,” Tony said, and shrugged. “Keep it. Throw it away. Toss it outside, for all I care. If I missed it I would’ve given you a call.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped, and Tony felt his heart seizing. He wanted to take it back, to apologize. “If that’s how you feel,” Peter said, and sounded resigned as he took the shirt and started zipping up his backpack. Tony noticed the kid didn’t put the shirt inside. “I also came here to…to talk,” Peter hedged, dragging the backpack up his shoulder so it was slung there, dangling from one strap. “About what happened at the Christmas party.”

“What happened? Something happened?”

Trying to make light of it wasn’t working, though. Peter’s frown deepened. “Can you just — for once in your life, Tony, can you be serious? This is serious! You’re acting like a — like a teenager. You got into a fight with my boyfriend in front of everyone we work with and now we’re headlining the front pages again. I was just putting everything else behind me and now I have to worry about this, too?”

“It’s tabloid gossip, Pete. It’ll die down as soon as everyone has something better to talk about. Word on the street is Jennifer Aniston was seen leaving Brad Pitt’s bachelor pad two nights ago, think about the buzz when that leaks.” 

Peter didn’t look mollified. “I don’t want to be tabloid gossip, Tony! I don’t want to be TMZ’s hot topic for the day. It undermines everything I’m doing. All anybody sees now when I walk into a room is Tony Stark’s leftovers, and that sucks.”

This time, it was Tony’s turn to look affronted. He tried to ignore the bitter pang that he felt in his heart. “You’re not my leftovers,” he whispered.

“Right,” Peter scoffed, “tell that to Perez Hilton.” There was another moment of uncomfortable silence. “Tony, I can’t do this. I can’t keep doing this. It’s ruining every aspect of my life.” 

The kid’s voice sounded thick with tears, and Tony couldn’t do anything other than lower his eyes. He looked down at the shirt clutched in Peter’s grasp. “You came all this way to bring that back?” he asked, and the abrupt change in subject must have startled Peter, because he raised his head and stared at the older man like he’d grown a second head. “Here. Give it to me.” Tony snatched the fabric from Peter’s grasp, tucking it beneath his arm.

“That isn’t…that’s not all I wanted,” Peter admitted, after a heavy moment of fidgeting that made Tony want to grab the kid’s hands to make him stop picking at his own nail beds. He hated when the kid did that. Peter took a deep breath, almost like he was steeling himself. “I wanted to tell you I’m resigning.”

Tony blinked, feeling like the earth was tilting on its axis but he wasn’t moving with it. “Resigning?” He sounded like a parrot.

“I was offered a position at Oscorp. They’re — it’s a really good opportunity, and…and I need to distance myself from whatever this is.”

“Distance? Pete, give me a break. We’ve been distant. This is the closest we’ve been in months.” How desperate did it sound, him cracking a joke to make Peter stay?

“You know what I mean, Tony.” Peter was mumbling his words. Tony wanted to yell at him, to tell him that he knew he was mumbling because he didn’t want to have this conversation. Why were they having it? “So — so here’s my badge,” Peter added, unfastening it from his backpack. He offered it to Tony. “I know I should probably be doing this through, like, Pepper or someone, but I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”

Tony found himself thinking that was nice of Peter. Decent. But Peter was a decent kid, so it wasn’t anything less than what he expected. “Hold on a hot second. Let me get this straight. You’re turning down what’s all but a guaranteed corner office as the head of R&D for a shot at Oscorp? Kid, you and I both know you can do better.”

Peter’s expression flickered from shocked to hurt, and the hand holding his security badge dropped to his side. “You know, after months I thought maybe you’d get the balls to apologize. To — to call me, or to text me. Something. Anything. But you didn’t. So yeah, I moved on.” Tony watched him frown, staring down at his scuffed Converse. “You were the one who left me there, in that restaurant. It wasn’t the other way around, Tony. So yeah, I want it over. I want to be rid of you. Can you blame me?” Peter peeked up at him.

Tony stared at the kid, his resolve crumbling. Everything Peter said was true. He was the one who had walked out. He was the one who had forced Peter to put a two hundred dollar dinner on his credit card, and then had the audacity to wire him money without so much as a “sorry” for it later. Maybe the least he could do this time was something to make leaving him easier for Peter. So Tony shrugged his shoulders. “What do you want me to do? Get on my knees and beg? I’m looking out for your future, Pete. One of us has to.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped and he hunched forward. “Okay. If that’s how you feel. Great. Then I am thinking of my future, Tony. And I can’t wait for it to be far away from you.” He dropped the badge at the older man’s feet, his hands holding the strap of his backpack in a white-knuckled grip. “Bye, Tony,” he muttered, and the elevator doors opened for him, as though FRIDAY had been listening all along. She probably was.

Tony stood there, impassive, as Peter got into the elevator. He didn’t move from the spot where he stood. Hell, he barely breathed. It was only once the doors shut and a ding announced Peter’s descent back to the main floor of the building that he looked down at his feet. He crouched, swiping up Peter’s badge. Tony stared at the boy’s grinning face, his cheeks rosy, eyes sparking with excitement from his first day at Stark Industries. Hours later, he’d run smack into Tony in the middle of the hall, spilling coffee all over the both of them. A trip to the bathroom later, and he was walking out flushed red for a different reason.

A sigh.

Tony got to his feet, carrying the badge and the shirt into his kitchen. He tossed them both on the center island, abandoning them there to be dealt with later (and preferably by Pepper, who would come by once she realized he hadn’t shown up Monday morning) so he could make his way instead to his liquor cabinet. Tony opened it, eyeing the various bottles. “Hello, dear,” he said, selecting a vintage that he thought he’d been saving for a special occasion.

It was as good an excuse as any.


End file.
